


"I don't have anyone else to call"

by redcandle17



Category: Flesh and Bone (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcandle17/pseuds/redcandle17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daphne receives an unexpected phone call from Claire and accompanies her to the morgue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"I don't have anyone else to call"

Daphne is hungover. She’d partied hard last night and she’d deserved every bit of fun she’d had ‘cause she’d fucking slayed in Rubies. She knows from past experience that the best way to ride out a hangover is to lie in bed and watch the sort of deep and serious movies that usually bored her. She’s looking forward to a nice, quiet day when her phone rings. She picks it up, intending only to dismiss the call and turn it off, when she notices that it’s Claire Robbins calling her. 

She answers out of curiosity, wondering why their new prima would be calling her after acting so self-righteous about the lack of fucks Daphne gives about Eastern European girls stupid enough to believe America is paved with gold. “Prima,” she says, making the word both an honorific and an insult. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I don’t have anyone else to call.”

Fuck. Those words spell trouble. Always have and always will. 

“Help me, please?” Claire’s tone is pleading. 

“Where are you?” she asks, silently praying that Paul or that bitch Jessica hadn’t pressured Claire into going home with some rich dick and forced the girl into more than she could handle. 

“Home. Please. They told me where to go, but I don’t want to go alone.”

“I’ll be there within the hour.”

At this time of the day, traffic shouldn’t be too bad, so Daphne takes a cab over to the shitty company apartment. She’d only been there twice before and each time she’d been accosted by a ratty homeless man who lurked under the stoop like some kind of troll. She’s relieved he’s not there today. 

Claire appears physically safe, and there’s no old asshole overdosing on the floor, but she’s obviously distressed. Her eyes are red from crying and her nose running and puffy, and it’s not pretty at all. 

“They said they’re sure it’s him. He had his wallet on him and his fingerprints are in the database because he was a Marine. But they want me to go ID him anyway. It’s a formality, they said.”

It must be this mysterious ex-boyfriend who’d come looking for her at the club. Daphne hadn’t been there that night, but Sergei’s men had told her about it. She’d been curious, but mostly amused. Everyone at the company was so sure that Claire was a frigid virgin. She’d love to see their faces if they found out that not only was Claire a stripper, but she had the sort of ex whom the bouncers said was probably professional muscle himself. 

“Your ex?” she asks, just to be sure. She doesn’t ask where they are going and what they have to do. Claire’s state of emotional distress and the words “ID him” can only mean one thing.

“My brother. Bryan.”

Damn. 

“Here in the city or…” Where was Claire from? “Philadelphia?”

“I’m from Pittsburgh,” Claire replies. “But he’s here. I asked him to come.” She starts sobbing. 

“It’s not your fault,” Daphne murmurs, holding her, even though for all she knows, it is indeed Claire’s fault. But Claire is the new star dancer of American Ballet Company, and, more importantly, there’s just something about her that simultaneously makes Daphne want to protect her and corrupt her. 

They take a cab to the medical examiner’s office. Daphne pays for it. Claire is dry-eyed and hollow now. At least until they’d led into a room and shown a photograph of a corpse. Daphne had been expecting to be led into a freezer and shown an actual corpse, so this is a relief for her. 

But not for Claire. “I want to see him.”

“It’s just a formality, Ms. Robbins,” the man says in the tones of fake, professional compassion. “Your brother’s fingerprints are in the system from his service in the Marine Corps.” 

“Please,” Claire says. “I need to see him. One last time.”

“You’ll see him at the memorial,” the man says gently. He’s good at acting like he gives a damn. Daphne wonders what kind of sick fuck chooses to do this for a living.

“There will have to be an autopsy since he was murdered, but fill out this paperwork and we’ll contact the funeral home you choose.”

“Murder?” Daphne says. It’s the first thing she’s said. She’s kept her mouth shut, not just because she’s only here to hold Claire’s hand, metaphorically and literally, but also because this place makes her uncomfortable. It makes her want to call her mother, and her father, and her first nanny, and her second nanny, who was hired after Mom caught Dad with his dick in her first nanny. 

“Mr. Robbins was stabbed and then had his throat cut.”

“Asshole,” Daphne snaps, as Claire makes a pained sound. She hugs her and glares at the bureaucrat. 

They’re standing on the sidewalk, trying to flag down a cab, and Daphne is wondering how many people walking by know that they’re walking by the fucking _morgue_ , when a black town car pulls up. The driver’s window rolls down to reveal one of Sergei’s men. Daphne doesn’t even want to know how Sergei knew about this. 

“Boss wants you to know if there’s anything you need, just say the word,” he says to Claire. 

“Thank you,” Claire says dully, but she’s digging her nails into her palm so hard that she’s drawing blood. Daphne takes her hand and forcibly opens it to keep her from hurting herself. 

When they’re back at the shitty company apartment, Daphne microwaves a nasty-looking frozen meal from the freezer, but ends up stopping the microwave and throwing the cardboard bowl into the garbage. She orders takeout from her favorite restaurant, and while she’s waiting for it to be delivered, she helps Claire change into a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. 

She just sits next to her on the couch, wondering whether she should let Paul know about this, and it’s Claire who leans into her like a kid looking to be comforted. Daphne holds her, and, without meaning to, starts to hum a tune either Nanny One or Nanny Two used to hum to her. 

It’s Claire who kisses her awkwardly. 

Daphne jerks back. 

“Sorry,” Claire says. “They said you were bi…”

“Doesn’t mean I’m down to screw anybody anytime,” Daphne says, more harshly than she meant to. Truth is, after that hella sexy performance Claire gave that first time at the club and her having the most perfect pair of tits Daphne has ever seen, Daphne would have loved to fuck her - if not for the fact that Claire seems so damaged that anything anybody does can only damage her worse. 

“I’m sorry,” Claire apologizes again. But she’s clinging to Daphne even tighter.

“Don’t leave me alone,” she pleas. She’s nuzzling Daphne.

And Daphne’s hit with sudden insight. What the others had taken for Claire’s lack of experience might actually be a sign that Claire had experience of the kind that no one should have. Right now Claire’s desperate and needy. Daphne could be sucking on those sweet tits and fingerfucking that little pussy and Claire would be grateful. But what sort of person would that make her?

She rubs Claire’s back. “It’s okay. I won’t leave you. You’ll be okay.”


End file.
